Page 16 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

“That seems ill-advised, for any number of reasons,” he said.

“I—I suppose so, yes. It will raise questions I cannot answer.”

Or will not answer.

“If I revealed to them that you draw the Unfashionable Plates,” he said, using the familiar name for Miss C.’s popular cartoons, “which is naturally their favorite feature in the magazine, it would only set a certain expectation as to the style of drawing in which you will instruct them.” It was his turn to lean toward her, as he favored her with a wry smile. “And I assure you, they are accomplished enough already in the fine art of teasing their brother.”

Something flickered in her hazel eyes—guilt or amusement, he could not say. He had the distinct impression that she had never before considered the private fates of those she skewered so publicly.

In his case, laughing sisters had been the least of his troubles.

A thump from outside drew his gaze once more to the window, though he did not immediately adjust his posture. He supposed it had been the coachman, alerting them to their imminent arrival at the next post of their journey, though Alistair had not thought them due to stop so soon. And indeed, the carriage had already begun to slow and seemed to turn toward their destination.

The stop after this one would be the end of the day’s travels, at a coaching inn he favored for its economy more than the comfort of its accommodations. By post chaise, it was a three-day journey from London to Rylemoor Abbey, with two nights on the road, and though on this occasion he would have been more than willing to endure further discomfort to shorten it, both for his own convenience and the sake of Miss C.’s purse, he knew that given her injuries, she also needed rest.

At just that moment, a wheel struck a rut in the road, or seemed to. Something gave a frightful crack! and all at once, the carriage dropped and lurched to a stop.

As he’d already been leaning slightly forward, the sudden motion threw him toward the back of the coach. He raised his arms to arrest his movement, planting his palms against the worn squabs, one on either side of his traveling companion. Miss C. gasped—either at the abrupt stop or at the discovery that she was pinned in something dangerously close to an embrace.

The sound drew his attention to her mouth, her soft peach-pink lips only inches from his own.

It had been an age since he’d enjoyed anything like intimacy with a woman. And he felt strongly that carrying an unconscious woman to his bed, or urging her back there when dizziness caused her almost to fall, should not count.

Yet he could not deny that those circumstances had acquainted him with information no mere acquaintance should possess: the texture of her hair (finer than embroidery silk), her scent (a piquant mixture of something vaguely floral and the sharp note of mineral spirits), and the precise number of freckles in the constellation across the bridge of her nose (eleven).

Before he could react, even to apologize—and that was not, to his chagrin, the present direction of his thoughts—the hired coachman wrested open the door. Alistair dropped back into his seat and Miss C. smoothed a trembling hand over her hair, which still bore a few traces of a simple coiffure, or what had remained of one after her accident and a night of sleep, now knocked further askew by her nap. If her bonnet had survived yesterday’s misadventure, it had not been among the possessions returned to her.

“Looks like t’ axle broke, sir,” the driver grunted, doing a passable job of masking his surprise at the compromising position he appeared to have caught them in. Only his eyebrows revealed any trace of speculative interest. “Happen there’s help to be found in t’ village.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and Alistair peered past him. A scattering of buildings were just visible in the distance through the mist. To call it a village might be a bit grandiose.

“Will we wait here?” Miss C. ventured.

As if in answer to her question, something shifted and the bottom seemed to fall out from beneath them again as the body of the coach dropped a few inches more.

“I think, ma’am,” Alistair said, mustering a wry smile, “we’d better not.”

She was already halfway out the door, her good hand balanced on the coachman’s shoulder as she made the leap to the ground, now rather closer than it had been.

Alistair followed a moment afterward, snatching his hat from the seat and squaring it on his head. Its brim did little to shield him from the rain, which rather seemed to swirl around them than pelt down from the sky.

There was nothing for it but to walk.

Miss C. sent a baleful glance toward the luggage. “What about our things?”

“The trunks will be safe enough,” he promised, though he had no real cause for certainty beyond the generally worn state of their traveling things—nothing to tempt some highway robber. “And John and I will bring the valises.” He’d packed his own for the overnight stays, while hers contained just what it had when the urchin had deposited it into his arms, with the exception of her sketches, which he’d placed in one of his own trunks for safekeeping.

The coachman took the hint, grabbed both carpet-covered bags in his two ham-sized fists, and set out toward the village at a faster clip than Miss C. could manage. The strip of last summer’s grass, which lay between the grooves carved by innumerable wheels of carriages and carts, was wide enough for two people to walk abreast. Alistair offered her his arm. Instead, she used her good hand to gather her skirts and lift them above the mud—though privately he thought that avoiding a muddied hem was hardly worth the effort, given that it was the same dress in which she’d lain on the cobblestones and then slept in his bed, and its once-neat woolen respectability was now little more than a memory.

The distance was not great, at least. But still, it was farther than anyone might have wished, given Miss C.’s injuries and the chilly rain. Wordlessly, he shrugged out of his greatcoat and draped it over her shoulders, which earned him a frown of surprise and a murmur of something that might have been thanks.

Eventually they had gone far enough that the mist could no longer disguise the few gray houses and shops, stone church, and two pubs that constituted the village. One of those pubs, the Coach and Cask, had a stable at the back and took advantage of its position on the post road to supply horses and a hostler for the convenience of those traveling through.

But it was not, Alistair realized as soon as he had ducked inside, an inn.

The walls of the Coach and Cask had last been whitewashed so long ago they now bore more resemblance to a cup of chocolate than a glass of milk. Stubs of tallow candles in tin sconces gave off a smoky light. He counted just two doors—the one through which they had entered, and another at the back, which must lead out to the stable yard.

He swept off his hat, and despite a scattering of customers and a fire roaring in the hearth, it was suddenly quiet enough to hear the rain droplets patter from the brim onto the flagstone floor. “Do you have rooms to let?” he asked, stepping closer to the bar, a simple, well-polished slab of oak, and addressing the ruddy-cheeked, balding man behind it. He did not hold out much hope, but it was too late in the day to expect the axle to be repaired while sufficient daylight remained to resume their journey.

“Not to speak of,” the barkeep said. “I told your coachman he was welcome to bed down in the stable.” A pause, just long enough for Alistair to wonder whether he was to expect a similar invitation. “S’pose I might make a place upstairs for you and”—his gaze slid past Alistair to take in Miss C.’s bedraggled, bonnetless state—“your missus.”

Ordinarily, Alistair would have protested the assumption. But this time, he had the presence of mind to keep his mouth shut. With slightly widened eyes, Miss C. managed a curtsy. “We’re much obliged.”

The man jerked his chin toward a table near the fire. “Take a seat, and I’ll see what’s to be done. S’pose you’ll want tea, Mrs.—”

“Cooper.” She spoke the name without the slightest hesitation, so quickly he wondered whether she had meant to do it, or whether she had inadvertently revealed more than she had intended. She pressed her lips together—a moment too late, perhaps. Then she nodded. “Tea would be lovely.”

Alistair helped her to a chair and settled himself in the one opposite her. They sat without speaking to one another as a murmur of conversation rose once more around them and thoughts raced through his head. The idea of presenting this stranger to his sisters as their new drawing master, gut-churning as it was, seemed positively harmless when compared to their present perilous charade as husband and wife.

He tried not to think of the worn but comfortable inn that had awaited them down the road, or to wonder whether “upstairs” was in fact the hayloft above the stable. After a while, a boy brought a pot of tea and a single cup without a saucer. Alistair, who would have been glad of the same, wordlessly accepted the mug of ale that was presented to him instead. They drank together, she from china, he from pewter, still not speaking and only accidentally meeting one another’s eye.

An eternity later—and yet long before he was ready to face what lay ahead—the barkeep reappeared and gestured for them to follow. They rose with a creak of wooden chairs and the snap of a coin laid on the table—her money, but from the sum he had retained to pay their expenses on the road, in order to avoid drawing further attention to their unconventional arrangement.

“After you, Mrs. Cooper,” he said with a bow made more than usually stiff by the cold and damp, a gesture she regarded with something like smugness. Then she stepped toward the rear door and Alistair followed her out.